


Reverse Reincarnation AU

by Feynite, SeleneLavellan



Series: Dirthalene [16]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Falling in love in every life, Feynite Fanwork, Pining, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:59:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17090201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan
Summary: A re-telling of the Reincarnation branch of the Frat AU where Dirthamen says yes to Des, instead of Selene.





	1. Chapter 1

Perhaps it was always a forgone conclusion, that one day Dirthamen would become a monster.

Perhaps that was, on some level, a vulnerability which others had noticed in his psyche. A crack, wide enough for the right set of circumstances to fit the right sort of spirit in, and ensure that he became an abomination.

The best thing for him to do, now, would be to leave. Before he degrades, and risks harming Selene or the children. They are safe, now. That is what is most important. And he is an abomination, which, according to most of what he has learned, means it is only a matter of time before he becomes a threat to them.

 _Andruil was not possessed,_  Des points out. It is disorienting, when he does. Their natures are not especially complimentary. The spirit is fierce and vibrant and wishes to  _act._ There is an urgency to its nature that feels almost untenable to Dirthamen, like two magnets of opposing nature repelling around one another. It makes him think of fire, and of his brother. Of Falon’Din, burning. And how close Andruil came to sharing his fate.

Blackened metal wrapped around flame.

The spirit’s point is a shallow one. Possession is not the  _only_  kind of corruption that a person might experience. But the fact remains that Dirthamen is possessed, and perhaps was always susceptible to such things - always liable to endanger those he loves. Just as he has endangered them through his family, as well.

He is contemplating the matter, as Uthvir sits down in front of him. It takes him a moment to deduce their passenger’s precise nature.

_Fear._

Des does not think too highly of the spirit which Uthvir has, apparently, been possessed by for years. Since before they met, even. It fills up the shadows of the room, and cannot seem to decide if it is a creature of flight or a lurking thing, waiting, silently, for some reason to react. If he had ever guessed that Uthvir was possessed, he would not have supposed it would be by something like Fear. It seems to him almost as if they have the appropriate spirits reversed. Uthvir is a passionate person. Dirthamen has always been hesitant, and afraid.

Des pushes at his thoughts. Trying to press some point to him, as Dirthamen contemplates their new reality. He takes his time with it. Uthvir pours him a drink - coffee - and does not speak for a while. They seem to be making their own assessments of his state. 

Uthvir is an abomination.

Dirthamen tries to imagine them someday hurting their family. Killing Thenvunin, or harming little Kel, or suddenly turning their claws onto their friends. Even hurting Selene or the twins, in some fit of madness. But… he cannot. Even when he tries to recollect if they have ever behaved in a way that implied such impulses, he cannot pinpoint anything. All he can think of is the last time he saw them buckling Kel and the twins into their car seats, and double-checking all the straps.

“How do you do it?” he finds himself asking.

Uthvir does not ask for further clarification. They tap a nail against the side of their glass, instead.

“Compromise,” they explain. “Your personality is a spectrum now. On one end there is pure Dirthamen, and the other, pure Desire.  Some impulses will come from places closer to one end or the other. Some days you’ll be closer to one end or the other. The closer you are to the spirit, the likelier you’ll be to give yourself away. But the more you attempt to simply repress the spirit, the more internal tension it creates.”

That makes sense. Even Des begrudgingly allows the explanation to settle into their contemplations.

“Drink your coffee,” Uthvir advises.

He picks it up, and lets the heat sink into his hands for a moment before he obligingly sips at it.

After a while, his friend speaks again.

“You are very afraid,” they note.

Dirthamen does not deny it. He has always worried over the liability he might present to the people he cares about. But… before, it had seemed as if, perhaps, he had over-estimated such things. Instead, he had under-estimated them. And now the life he had had only a short while ago feels like a foolish, selfish dream. 

Des does not like the thought. It  _aches_ , and it makes his heart feel as though it is burning.

“I do not want to hurt anyone,” he admits.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at him.

“Your partner is  _Desire,”_ they point out. “If you do not  _desire_  to hurt anyone, then it has now become even more unlikely that you will or even  _can_  take actions to that effect.”

From Des, Dirthamen gets a sudden rush of mixed agreement, and a sort of heady distaste for the point’s source. Dirthamen frowns at the spirit’s apparent dislike for Uthvir; though, after a few more minutes of quiet self-reflection, he thinks it is less for  _Uthvir_  than for  _Fear._

…Des thinks the spirit is  _stodgy._

Dirthamen is honestly not certain what to make of that. Perhaps, the truth is that he is simply over his head in all regards.

Uthvir talks with him, more. Explaining concepts that have never made it into any of the books with Dirthamen has read, things like ‘possession disorientation’ and magical potency surges and underground, online forums where abominations meet to discuss their experiences. How to filter for certain inclinations, and managing reactions, as Des must acclimate himself to Dirthamen’s range of emotions and experiences, and Dirthamen must adjust to Des’ presence and impulses.

The prospect of an eternal lifespan is particularly disorienting to contemplate.

After several hours, and many long, pondering silences have gone by, Uthvir offers to let Dirthamen and Selene make use of their lake house.

“Take some time, and adjust,” they recommend, in a manner that feels more like a command.

Dirthamen’s own judgement is highly compromised, though, and he does not know which - if any - impulse to trust. He  _wants_  to be able to keep his family, and he does not know if wanting it so badly means he cannot trust the concept at all. And Des does not seem to know how to process Dirthamen’s conundrums, and so the command is almost a welcome reprieve.

Uthvir is experienced at this. Uthvir knows better than he does, what to do. Uthvir is  _Fear,_  is…  _Caution,_  perhaps even more than that.

They would not risk things.

Dirthamen nods, and permits them to give him the lake house keys.

 

~

 

The first day at the lake, Dirthamen finds himself having… difficulties.

Selene feels guilty. Her leg is still mending from where Andruil had broken it, and her feelings towards him are… complicated. Or, rather, she is very angry at Des, and very frightened for Dirthamen. But they are one and the same, and at times when Des comes out, Selene tends to argue with him. Dirthamen is not accustomed to having such fights with her. She has rarely seemed so angry with him for so long, but it is further compounded by the fact that she is  _not_  angry with him.

He does not know how to resolve the issue. Apologizing only seems to make it worse, and make her feel more guilty. It makes Des snap inside of him, makes his breaths come short, and terrifies him with the prospect that he really  _is_  losing control of himself.

And then, he does.

The evening of the first day, the twisting fire in his chest and the conflict within himself finally seems to reach a breaking point. Dirthamen does not know what will happen, he is terrified and nauseous, as his magic seems to crackle outwards and his feelings clatter against Desire’s until he cannot tell who is what or where. His face feels feverishly hot. Purple smoke spills out across the floorboards.

He curls in on himself, as the dam breaks, and he  _weeps._

He cannot recollect ever crying so hard before. Not even when his brother had died. His whole body trembles with the strength of his sobs. His chest heaves, and his throat burns, and he babbles. He cannot seem to keep it inside, it all  _wants_  rush out, though it does not seem to make much sense when it does. Broken words of all his mixed-up sentiments, of how badly frightened he has been. For Selene, and the children, and even himself. Of how he hates Andruil and hates his parents and even, secretly, may have hated his dead brother, too. Hates himself, most of all, for not being strong enough to keep the people he loves best safe from the people who  _should_  have loved him enough to never endanger them in the first place.

A mess of apologies spill out of them, and some of them are Des’, too. The feeling of remorse is so alien to the spirit that it sinks into it, and drags Dirthamen even deeper into all of the feelings that come burning out of him in a mess of wracking cries.

Selene cries, too. Selene holds him and cries with him, and tells him she is sorry, tells him he should not have come for her.

Dirthamen holds her more tightly, at that. Clutching her,  _needing_  her, unable to fathom the concept that he would not have come for her. Even Useless Dirthamen, who cannot act, who can only mourn - he would not have left her.  _Could_  not have left her. He loves her.

He loves her, and he is so happy that she is alive. He would host a thousand spirits to ensure that.

The thought settles something in him, finally. The visceral unease in him lessens, as Des seems to latch upon the anchor of that concept. And bit by bit, Dirthamen calms down. His breaths even out. His heart slows down. The purple mist settles, like a gentle fog across the floor, and he thinks that something inside of himself has just finished shifting around. Sand finally settling into the bottom of a new hourglass.

Selene is on the floor. Awkwardly positioned with the cast on her leg, wrapped around him. It reminds him of an old story, about a Dalish First who dallied with an abomination. In order to free her lover from his demons, the First had to hold him as he changed shape. Showing no fear as his form changed from beast to beast, until the sun came up, and he was simply an elf again.

When Dirthamen moves to stand, she tightens her grip on him.

“I have you,” she murmurs, tiredly.

He pauses, and then tries turning in her grasp, instead. When she realizes he is not trying to get away from her, she relaxes her arms a little, and lets him move. He folds his arms around her, and lifts her up. She is much easier to carry now - lighter, as he has become stronger.

He will have to be careful with that strength.

When he has scooped her up, she lets out a breath. But she does not seem frightened, only a little concerned, until he carries her to the bedroom. Then she settles a hand to his chest, and pats him. It is past four in the morning, according to the bedside clock. Dirthamen settles her onto the blankets, and carefully begins to pull away her clothing. His main thought had been to simply undress her for sleeping. But she sighs, and leans into his touch, and he can  _feel_ it. Her desire for intimacy with him again, battling with her concerns for him. Those are less clear to him. They exist mostly as tethers that restrain the want in her, but he knows her well enough to guess at the sources of her hesitation.

Des has knowledge of her, too. Knowledge born from long years spent haunting her dreams. Dirthamen is too tired himself to wrestle with the spirit over his anger at that, right now. Des does not understand that anger anyway, although he is - slowly -  _beginning_  to.

Dirthamen caresses Selene’s bared skin, as he strips her down to her underthings. He pulls his own shirt away, and pauses for a moment. Brushing a hand down her cheek, before settling his grip gently onto her chin. Her eyes are closed, but she seems more relaxed than she has been since The Incident. There is a light reflecting gently off of her. A warmth, to ease the ache of her leg, and all of it is emanating from himself. A soft gleam, separate of the moonlight, that makes him think he must not look very elven at all.

He leans down, and kisses her. Gently, and them more urgently. Sweet longing unfurling in him; a simpler desire than so many others making their needs known.

She opens her eyes. Lets out a breath, and reaches for him, and settles a hand against the curve of his left horn.

“All of me loves you,” he promises her. Because it is true, and right now, that consensus is his best port against this storm.

But that, he thinks, is another reason to hesitate.

Selene shifts her hips against him, but then winces as she pulls her leg the wrong way. Dirthamen presses another kiss to her lips, and offers a few more caresses, before ultimately curling up onto the bed beside her. He helps her get settled onto her side, with a pillow between her knees, and presses himself up against her back. His lips cannot help but trail across her neck, and her shoulder; he pauses, feeling heated but calm as he sucks a bruise into the base of her neck, and relishes the tired spark it draws from her.

His head is clear, and he is hopelessly aroused and yearning. And that is familiar ground.

When Selene finally falls into exhausted sleep, Dirthamen holds her, and adjusts.


	2. Chapter 2

After…

_After._

Dirthamen and Des work out a deal.

Dirthamen wishes to die too, when Selene is gone. But Des does not. The twins are still alive, and so are their grandchildren; and for a while, this is enough to keep Dirthamen from completely giving in. But all aspects of him know that this will not last forever. The twins will  _not_  live forever. Their friends are also passing. Uthvir and Melarue will not, but the rest go by turns. As they must.

Des does not wish to die. Hence, the deal.

Death is death, and Dirthamen owes Des. Their agreement was never as clear as it should have been, made in too much haste and with too little understanding between them. And over the years, Des has taken advantage of that. He seizes even more control once Selene is gone – most of Dirthamen’s willpower dies with her, and left to his own devices, he knows he would pine and fall into depression, and likely neglect himself to death in turn.

Not so uncommon a fate, for someone of his age. When they are not an abomination.

Des offers a balm, however. Dreams, in exchange for life. By day, they live a life of interest to Des. What that entails changes a great deal over the years, as Des develops and drops various hobbies and comes more into his own tastes and ambitions. But at night, they sleep, and Dirthamen is given dreams. Ones that have been carefully tailored to him. Ones which ease and twist the grief in him by turns.

Sometimes he dreams of Selene. And sometimes he dreams of the twins. Sometimes he dreams of friends, and old memories, and sometimes he dreams of his family. His brother, alive and well and sweeter than he ever was, sits beside him as they take turns on a swing set. His father turns up for his graduation, and embraces him proudly. In dreams his sisters are kind, and his mother  _adores_  Selene, and his friends and family all come for various celebrations, all rest in the halls of a great house that is a familiar, comforting combination of childhood manor and college Fraternity House, humble lakeside getaway, and sunny beach vacation home, and comfortable city townhouse. It does not care for consistency; only Dirthamen’s happiness, as he sits in the library where his mother used to read to him, and he and Falon’Din read books to the twins in turn.

His brother grins and scoops Felasel up into his lap. The twins are five, tonight, and they love the funny voices their uncle makes as he reads from Darevas’ favourite picture book. Dirthamen weaves a magical shadow puppet show against the wall beside them, enacting the scenes, as Darevas wedges himself up against his side in turn.

They are partway through the segment of the story where the hero meets the merman, when an unexpected shadow falls over half of the wall. Dirthamen blinks, and the four of them pause to look over towards the entrance of the library.

Selene is standing there.

Only… she is the wrong Selene.

This version is too young for the mother of five-year-old twins. Her hair is tied back in a tight braid, and she is wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck, too hot for the bright and sunny weather. And the more Dirthamen stares, the more he notices other oddities about her. There is vallaslin on her face, and it is not a design he recognizes. And the shape of her face is slightly… off, too. Thinner, with a slightly wider jaw, and rounder cheekbones.

It is a strange development. It reminds Dirthamen that he is dreaming, but he tries not to focus on it too heavily. He does not wish to jolt awake. Even with some oddities, the dream is still better than waking to the cold dark of his apartment, and whatever partner Des has brought home this evening.

“Mama!” Darevas exclaims, not so inhibited as Dirthamen himself. He dashes over to her. Felasel settles for a wave, and Falon’Din joins in.

Selene looks startled. She goes stock still as Darevas crashes into her legs, and then grins up at her.

“We’re tellin’ stories, Mama! Come sit!”

Reaching for her hand, he insistently entwines his fingers with hers, and begins tugging her over to the little reading circle. Selene’s brow remains furrowed as she follows him. She looks uncertainly at Dirthamen, and at Falon’Din; but when Darevas gives her another insistent tug, she settles onto the floor between them. And though she seems bewildered, she lets him clamber into her lap, too.

Falon’Din resumes reading.

Dirthamen, after only a moment’s more delay, resumes the shadow puppet show, too.

When they finish the first story, Darevas claps, and Felasel does, too, showing no signs of tiredness or stress. Selene smiles, tentative and small. Dirthamen ventures a hand towards her. She stiffens when he brushes her knee.

“Are you alright, Selene?” he asks.

She blinks at him. Her mouth opens, and then closes again. She looks down at Darevas, and if Dirthamen could find a word for her expression, he thinks it would be ‘lost’.

“Selene?” he tries again, more gently.

This is very peculiar.

“…s’fine,” she murmurs. The first thing she has said since she arrived. Her gaze lowers, and Dirthamen pauses as he notes something. A blemish on the back of one of her hands. His own brow furrows – that should not be. No one is ever hurt in his dreams. Sometimes babies cry, and sometimes he or Selene will leave lovemarks. But there are no hurts, not even papercuts.

The moment is so unsettling, that before Dirthamen can question Selene, the dream ends. The library and twins, his brother and the strange image of his wife all falling away, as Des pulls his consciousness back up with a new and strange sort of urgency.

_Why was she hurt?!_  He wonders, baffled and unnerved.

But a great deal of his disconcertment is not really  _his,_  he realizes, after a moment. Des is practically vibrating with some indescribable sentiment, that takes time for them both to parse out. But it comes in more through deducation than anything else.

Awake, and with their attention undivided, Dirthamen realizes that the image of Selene was  _not_  Des’ doing.

And it was not his own doing, either.

They did not dream her. Nor could any outside spirit have conjured and infiltrated the dream in such a way.

…But it would be impossible for Selene to visit his dreams herself. She is dead. She has been dead for almost a century, now.

_Well,_  Des thinks, as they lie in bed and war with a dozen different emotions. Confusion and excitement vying for dominance.  _There **are**  some theories, on subjects such as that…_


	3. Chapter 3

Selene’s heart is beating fast in her chest when she wakes up.

The lights in the chantry hall are still out. The rest of the clan are lumps on their sleeping pallets, and the sky outside the windows is barely turning grey. The entire chantry feels like it’s still dreaming – and in a way, it probably is. Only a few distant, scratching sounds, that might be mice in the walls again, break the still and the quiet.

That, and the sound of Selene’s breaths in her own ears.

She gets up as quietly as she can. Pushing back her scratchy grey blankets to check herself over, and then the bedding, and the floor around it. Nothing weird seems to have happened during her sleep, though. There are no scorch marks anywhere, no odd currents in the air, or strange smells. Just quiet, and a little dust from the window sill, and the scent of the cheap floor cleaner that she scrubbed the hall with yesterday.

After a few minutes, she lets out a breath – and since she’s awake anyway, she starts making up her pallet. Mother Laurina is  _very_  particular that everything in the chantry be kept  _clean._  She has made a great deal of fuss over it, ever since she was obliged to give ‘refuge’ to the clan. Or, rather, ever since the Ostwick government started pressing the chantry to give shelter to  _everyone_  displaced by the raging wildfires.

Three nights.

Three nights in a row, she’s been dreaming of the same demon. A Desire demon, she’s sure of it, even though she’s never met one quite like it before.

It’s not really a mystery why she might have attracted one. The clan’s displacement has been nightmarish. So many of them had to leave everything behind, and some didn’t even make it that far. Selene’s family aravel is probably just a pile of ash by now. They lost halla, which is always a terrible blow, too. Human shelters wouldn’t take them, and the routes south, to Ferelden, are over-crowded and barely passable as it is. Some ranchers out near Starkhaven offered to take most of the clan’s. But whether or not they’ll actually be able to retrieve them again, that’s less certain.

And yet…

Selene sits down next to her freshly-made pallet, and lets out a long breath.

Haleir had gone south, along with Deshanna and a few other clan representatives who could be sent. To speak at the Arlathvhen that had been called, and to discuss relief efforts with some of the southern clans. The clan had been forced to split between various shelters, and given their skills as healers, sending Selene and Elrogathe with the same groups would have been counterproductive. So Selene is here, in a little farm chantry, with Alaris, and a quarter of the clan in their care.

The air smells of smoke. It should be stifling. But Selene feels like she can  _breathe_  for the first time since she got married.

The only surprise, really, is that her dreams aren’t all full of her picking up and running away. Keeping on going, to somewhere else. Faking her death in the fires, maybe. It wouldn’t take much. Some well-placed hints, implications… no one would really think to look for her…

But instead, there’s this Desire demon. And dreams of things that look like they might have come out of a Hallmark commercial. If they ever actually put elves in Hallmark commercials, anyway. There are smiling, happy families, and children, and games and laughter. Two of the children, the same two, always call her ‘mama’, though they’ve been different ages every night so far. And the other elves all seem to know her, while the demon is always fashioned as her husband.

A much better husband than the one she  _has,_  so there’s probably no mystery behind that particular quirk. The really troubling part is how… well. How real they seem. How pleasant they are. How much she’s started to look forward to falling asleep, after just three nights, and how, even now, part of her wants to close her eyes and try to go back there.

Letting out a breath, she turns her head and looks up towards the stained chantry rafters.

What to do about it, though?

As far as the chantry is concerned, Selene is absolutely, definitely not a mage, nope. Being a mage would get her shipped to one of the Circle shelters, which would make it nigh-on impossible for her to help her clan, and would be notoriously difficult for her to get released from. She’d honestly rather just fake her death, in the grand scheme of things. Folding her arms, she brushes her fingers up the fading bruises that her husband had left as a parting gift.

Haleir is bad. But there are other things that are worse, and a Circle shelter seems like a good place to meet them.

Of course, lying about her mage status means she can’t exactly going around asking for advice on handling her demon dreams. And even if she  _could,_  it’s not as if anyone is going to ship in the ingredients for a dream-blocking remedy or something. Not in an emergency chantry shelter. She can’t send a letter to Deshanna – it’s almost a given that someone else would read it, at some point in the journey. Internet is spotty at best and the chantry only has a couple of rundown dial-up computers, which pass  _everything_ through chantry filters, and a handwritten letter could easily fall onto the wrong desk by ‘mistake’. A phone call would be just as bad.

Doing nothing has been the plan so far. But the demon doesn’t seem interested in stopping, and when Selene was younger, she had a bad habit of lighting fires in her sleep whenever something in her dreams attacked her. Or, uh… otherwise excited her. It’s been a while, but, she can just see the headlines now. ‘Dalish mage lights chantry shelter aflame!’, they’d probably blame her for all the wildfires, too, and then use it as an excuse to officially run more Dalish out of their lands.

Selene’s still thinking over it all when the light starts to get brighter, and some of the rest of the clan begins to stir.

She dresses, then. She doesn’t really have pyjamas, she’d only been able to grab a few sets of clothes on the way out, so mainly she’s just been swapping out sweaters and pants and cleaning up as often as she can. There was a donation drive, but she didn’t take much from the offerings. There weren’t enough to really go around, and others needed it more. At least she  _has_  more than the shirt on her back – even if it’s not by a huge margin.

Heading out through one of the chantry side doors, she wanders into the parking lot. It’s a cool morning. The air feels good on her skin, even if it is still smoky. For a few minutes she just sort of meanders. Breathing, and looking out towards the red, red light of the sunrise. It looks like the sky’s splitting itself open.

She hasn’t been out for long when she hears the door open, and turns to see that Alaris has followed her out.

Her cousin is wearing a sweater of his own, along with a loose set of donation-bin sweats, but his feet are bare. He wrinkles his nose at the concrete, before making his way over to her.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

Selene shrugs.

There was a time when she told Alaris almost everything. But that was back when her secrets were childish, simple kinds of things. Crushes and ambitions and embarrassing things she’d heard or seen. Before they started to get complicated, before she began to wake up every morning with the taste of blood in the back of her throat, and the knowledge of just how  _badly_  things would go if she ‘made trouble’.

Sometimes… sometimes, she lets herself think that Alaris would help her, if he knew.

But most days, she’s more afraid of what might happen if he decided not to believe her. Or if the rest of the clan talked him out of it. Elrogathe would. And she knows, it’s easier to believe that one person you’ve grown up alongside is a liar, than that another person you’ve grown up alongside is… what Haleir is.

“You want to talk?” Alaris offers.

Again, Selene shrugs.

Yes. No. Always. Never.

The demon might actually be an easier subject than most, in the end. At least there’s no one to overhear them right now.

She sighs.

“I’ve been having  _visitors_  in my dreams,” she admits.

It earns her a worried frown. But after a moment, Alaris heaves a long sigh of his own.

“I’ve had a few, too,” he says. She’s not expecting it. At her expression, he offers a shrug of his own. “Don’t look so surprised. The clan’s territories are burning. Even when the fires actually stop, we’re going to have our hands full rebuilding and recovering. Everyone’s displaced, people are dead, we’re going to have to rebuild so much stuff, and, that’s in between fighting all the legal battles that are probably going to kick up now. There are more than enough fears and tensions to attract a fair few  _visitors.”_

Selene swallows back her first reply, which is to blurt out that she’s not being visited by  _Fear_  demons. Her fingers twitch, and she fidgets with her braid. Offering him a nod of acknowledgement instead.

“What?” Alaris presses, noticing anyway.

“Nothing,” she says. “You’re right. Under the circumstances, it’s not surprising. It’s just…”

She hesitates.

“They just seemed so…  _happy_.”

The admission sneaks out of her at little more than a murmur, as her eyes shut. She can see the last dream’s setting behind them. The open windows in the little kitchen, in some beach house on a sandy shoreline. One of the twins, Darevas, kept asking the demon if he could go swimming again. But dinner was almost read, so he had to wait. There’d been other kids, too. Running around. Their parents smiling and setting a big outdoor table. It had been busy and bustling, kind of like the clan feasts, but… not, too. She had been decorating a plate full of cookies with the demon, while the other twin, Felasel, kept trying to steal some.

“Who?” Alaris asks.

It chases the memory away. Selene looks back at him, and kicks herself.

“The people in my dreams,” she settles for telling him. “They seem so happy. It’s hard to… go.”

“You’ve been having troubles saying no,” Alaris surmises.

She shakes her head, but after a moment, shrugs. It seems easier to just go with that, than to mention that the demon hasn’t even  _asked_  her for anything, yet. He’s just… there. Doing things with her. Watching her. Sometimes he touches her, but he’s never grabbed her or hurt her. The only thing he offered her last night was a cookie, and then just by extending the plate outwards.

Selene’s a good student. She knows demons and spirits, and how to avoid deals. You don’t make a deal with one just by taking a cookie off of a plate. There have to be contracts and agreements.

“Just remember – whatever a  _visitor_  promises, it’s what you  _want_  them to offer. Not what they can actually give you,” her cousin says.

Another sigh escapes her, and Selene drops her braid, and nods in acknowledgement.

He’s right. She knows he’s right.

Somehow, though, it doesn’t really seem to help very much.


	4. Chapter 4

Dirthamen dreams of Selene for weeks.

He learns a great deal about her in that time. That her name is the same. That her voice sounds the same. That she is Dalish, still, and that she is somewhere in the Free Marches. That there was a fire, where she lived. That she has since moved away from it. She is careful not to tell him her exact location, or to offer up the names of people in her personal life. She hardly seems to talk about her life at all, and Dirthamen is not certain if she avoids the subject only because she distrusts him, or because she dislikes speaking of it and would not wish to bother even if she trusted him completely.

That could just be his own projections, however.

Des is fascinated with the development as well, of course, but their contract has long since settled, and it makes it difficult for him to exert himself in the dreams he has allocated to Dirthamen. And they are reluctant to change the pattern of the dreams, lest it somehow prevent Selene from returning again. They do not know how she found them, and so they do not dare risk moving, or changing their schedule, or altering the fundamentals of Dirthamen’s dreaming space beyond the usual cosmetic details.

But it has an impact, of course. Dirthamen finds himself… engaged. Almost as if he is waking up, even though he is technically still asleep. And it carries over, too. More mornings, he wakes up feeling more presence within his body. Engaging more with Des, and retaining better memories of what they do throughout the day.

Which, in between Des’ pursuits, usually involves searching all of the databases on Dalish fire refugees in the Free Marches. Records are difficult to access, however, and Dirthamen finds himself calling upon favours he has not bothered with in a long time.

He phones Uthvir.

“You are dreaming about Selene,” they say, in a tone of voice that implies that this not surprising or noteworthy information in any sense.

“It is not a dream construction or a memory of her,” Dirthamen clarifies. “It is another incarnation of her. She has found me again.”

There is a long pause, and then low sound, like a breath being let out.

“I see,” Uthvir replies. “In that case, I should probably come and see you. Where are you?”

Peculiar. Uthvir is generally reluctant to leave their manor. But, then again, this is a highly unexpected situation.

“I do not require a meeting between us, as yet,” Dirthamen nevertheless explains. “I only need assistance in locating her in the real world. I believe she may require some assistance. That seems a plausible reason for her to have sought me out, on some level.” And it is an impression he has not been able to shake in his interactions with her. Something is wrong.

“So you want me to help you find Selene’s reincarnation, whom you have met in a dream?” Uthvir clarifies. “The dreams you regularly have about Selene, which are constructed by Des to be especially lifelike and believable?”

Dirthamen considers.

“Yes,” he confirms.

There is another long pause, and then another long breath.

“I suppose it would not hurt anything to look,” Uthvir decides. “Just so long as you do not take any drastic actions without consulting with me first, if you please.”

Dirthamen agrees, and even Des does not protest. Though, his partner has grudgingly grown to accept Uthvir’s counsel more readily over the years. Des is not particularly good at subtlety, and there have been a few times when he has been in command of situations that have subsequently deteriorated, and required outside aid to escape. Despite their own extreme preference for safety, Uthvir has never failed to help.

They do not disappoint in this situation, either.

It takes several more weeks, and many more dreams, before Uthvir finds a record of an elven merchant attending a Dalish conference on the wildfire incidents. According to the elf’s records, he has a wife, named Selene. Uthvir sends this information with many reminders that it is possibly only a coincidence. They do not recognize the name of the man on their list; Dirthamen cannot blame them. The incident where they might have crossed paths was many years ago, in college, and few had cared to recollect the name of the elf Dirthamen threw out of a window even during their lifetimes.

Dirthamen did not forget, however.

Haleir.

Reincarnation has not made an exception for Selene, it would seem. And this time she is married to her attacker.

_Perhaps he is not a bad person in this life,_  Dirthamen hopes. And he is surprised to find Des echoing the desire. But in the grand scheme of things, he would rather Selene be happy with someone else, than be married to someone who would harm her.

He does not think this is a wish the universe has accommodated, however. The Selene he has been meeting in dreams has changed – but not very much.

Des gets them from their apartment in Denerim and onto a plane to Starkhaven. The records with Uthvir had found for them show that Haleir is a member of Clan Lavellan, which has mostly sought refuge among various shelters around Ostwick. When they land, they find their search somewhat stymied by the chaos and flood of inquiries which are barraging the Free Marches. Politics between the cities remains difficult to navigate, and records of various refugees are being divided between Starkhaven, the chantry, and various regional emergency services. A further call to Uthvir, and some more digging, and they board a second flight to Ostwick.

The plane has already taken off by the time Dirthamen looks towards the seats several rows up, and sees a familiar head of ginger hair.

He stills.

It could be a coincidence, of course. He cannot see the man’s face. But he is very tall, and has visibly elven ears.

Dirthamen stares at the back of his head, and waits to see if the man will move. It is not a long flight, however, and even when Des decides to get up and ‘use the restroom’ so that they can pass him, several other people opt to do the same. So they remain seated. Dirthamen stares and Des attempts to glean some of the man’s desires, instead, to pull a clue from there. But differentiating him from the other people on the flight is impossible. They did not know Haleir well enough the first time they met him to tell, and the plane is filled with a general ambiance of anticipation anyway. A desire to land and be reunited with people and to rest.

They keep an eye on him as they disembark. Confirmation comes later, when they are in the airport again, and they see the man waiting at the baggage claim.

It is him.

Des takes over, as Dirthamen pulls back. Drawn more into contemplation and consideration of their next move. Des purchases a book from the small airport library which is still within view of Haleir’s position. They did not bring anything apart from their carry-on. Dirthamen’s most valuable possessions are in safe storage, and Des enjoys buying new things when they travel, and neither of them knows how long they might be here for. Hours. Weeks. Years.

He finds a chair, and Des pretends to read, and in the meanwhile plucks at the threads of Desire that he can perceive in Haleir. The man is frustrated, so his desires are somewhat conflicting. He wants to go home, and he would have preferred to stay in Ferelden. He wants an opportunity. Nice things. Importance. He is satisfied that the disaster in his clan has put him in even higher standing, but he wants more.

He is looking forward to retrieving his wife and taking her to a hotel room. Of venting his frustrations on her.

Dirthamen considers killing Haleir on the spot. He wants to. Viscerally. The sight of his face again provokes a hatred that he did not know what still inside of him. But, there are many witnesses, and besides which – his presence may have at least simplified part of their search. Haleir is planning to retrieve Selene, which means he will go to her.

He will lead Dirthamen straight to her.

Of course, that would also mean that he will see Selene again. That would not be a permissible outcome, and if possible, should be prevented.

Mind made up, Dirthamen waits until Haleir leaves the airport. Des is much better at navigating the situation outside, and they draw close, nearly colliding with the man in the rush to hail a cab amidst other potential passengers.

“Where are you heading?” Des asks. “Maybe we could split the fare.”

Haleir sizes him up.

“I’m going a long ways out of the city,” he admits. “To one of the villages. Steriton.”

Des beams.

“A lucky coincidence,” he says. “I’m heading that way, too. You… are you Dalish? You must be. The tattoos, and the location – I’m a legal advocate from Arlathan, Des’din Adannaris. Just flew in to volunteer my services at facilitating discussions with some members of your clan who are interested in seeking asylum from Arlathan.”

Haleir blinks. His narrow, just for half a second, before he smiles affably.

“Well that is lucky!” he agrees. “Splitting the fare will certainly help the clan coffers, too.”

“A good cause,” Des cheerfully notes.

They share the backseat of the same cab.

Haleir asks them a few questions, which Des fields easily. He gets the man talking about himself, then, and that seems to be a topic which Haleir is fond of. He is a businessman, he explains. He organizes his clan’s finances and trade, and helps get them good deals on various pieces of craftwork they sell, and comes from a prestigious lineage within his clan. He has married recently, he explains.

“Not that it’s slowed me down much,” he explains, with a chuckle. “But my wife has a good bloodline. You know how it is. Good for making proper elven babies, passing on the traditions and all.”

Des’ returned smile comes back tight. Dirthamen does not like Haleir’s desires.

“Do you have a photo?” he asks, anyway. Just to see. He is not certain if he wants it to be his Selene or not, now. It seems so likely that it is. But perhaps it is not – perhaps she has escaped this. Except, then he would be at a loss as to how to find her again.  _That is better than the alternative,_  he thinks, just the same.

Ultimately, however, the universe and his desires are not often in concert. Reality is what it is. That is why it is not a dream.

Haleir shows him a photograph of himself and Selene on his phone. They are dressed in formal Dalish attire. Elrogathe, and a woman Dirthamen thinks must be Selene’s mother – going off of the resemblance – are in the photo as well.

“She is beautiful,” he notes.

“Eyes off,” Haleir says, jovially, but with just a hint of an edge. “She was promised to me since we were children. I’m glad she grew up as nicely as she did – you should see some of the dogs in our clan.”

Dirthamen frowns, until Des’ understanding of his meaning comes through. Ah. He is referring to unattractive women as dogs, not attempting to divert the conversation towards animal husbandry.

It is a long cab ride to Steriton. Dirthamen grows quiet after a time. Haleir even falls asleep for part of it, and the driver makes very little small talk. Her presence is the largest deterrent towards the idea of ending Haleir. That, and the fact that doing so would likely result in an aborted trip, and he still has not learned where  _precisely_  Selene is. Haleir gave their destination has a hotel, but no village hotels are serving as emergency shelters.

Still, Dirthamen thinks, he could always visit each of the prospective shelters himself. But killing Haleir is liable to cause disruption. It may upset Selene, even despite his mistreatment of her. And once it is done, it cannot be undone.

They reach the hotel, and split the fare. Haleir heads to the desk first, to receive the key for his reserved room. Des asks after a room for them, in turn, while Haleir moves towards the elevator and pulls out his phone. He dials a few times, frowning, as the concierge explains that they have no vacancies, but recommends an inn on the other side of the village. Dirthamen then pretends to consult his own phone, as he listens to Haleir finally get an answer to his call.

“Alaris!” he exclaims. “Good news, I’m back from the arlathvhen. Where’s Selene? I’ve been trying to reach her but my calls aren’t getting through-“

The conversation moves beyond Dirthamen’s ability to eavesdrop as Haleir gets into the hotel elevator.

However, before Dirthamen leaves the hotel lobby, the elevator comes back down to the ground floor again. Haleir hurries out.

“Is that cab still here?” he demands.

Dirthamen looks, and shakes his head.

“No,” Des says. “Why? Is something the matter?”

Haleir’s expression twists into something more like a grimace than worry.

“My wife’s gone missing,” he says. “I need to get to that chantry, figure out where she’s run… ah, what might have happened. She might have gotten overwhelmed by all of this. She has a fragile state of mind, and sometimes she gets confused, especially when her routines are disrupted.”

Des raises an eyebrow, and Dirthamen goes cold and sharp. Angry in way that is oddly satisfied with his anger, and worried in a way that makes his stomach drop.

“You don’t know where she is?” Des confirms.

Haleir gives him an odd look.

“No. That’s the whole problem,” he replies. “I need to call a cab-”

“I’ll do it,” Des offers. “I saw the number on the driver who just dropped us off. Where’s the chantry?”

Haleir gives him the address, and he calls the cab, and asks if the driver could take a passenger to the chantry on 232 Wheatley Street. The woman doesn’t seem eager, but she also accepts. Haleir doesn’t seem to think twice about it when they follow him out into the parking lot – but then, Dirthamen was already on his way out. It’s a natural flow of movement, to exit the hotel. Haleir still has his luggage with him.

Good.

There will probably be more information inside of it.

“Haleir, look,” Des says, gesturing towards a side street. “Is that your wife down there?”

Haleir spins, and frowns.

“Where?” he demands.

“I thought I saw her, just heading down the back street,” Des replies. “It was a tall blonde, at least. Leggy, with a similar face to the photo…”

Haleir is already moving. Dirthamen follows him until they’re halfway down the side of the building. The brick of the building next to it makes the space small enough for a simple illusion spell. Cover, to make the street seem empty. It’s fairly easy to get Haleir to stop before they reach the street behind the hotel. Dirthamen just settles a hand onto his shoulder.

“Where did…?”

“Haleir,” Dirthamen says.

Haleir looks back towards him, and balks. He opens his mouth, but Des is already moving. Satisfying the desire that has been in him since he first read Uthvir’s message. It stretches Des further away from their body than he has been in some time, but for this, he can manage it. Dark desires have gotten harder for him to follow over the years. Yet Dirthamen’s  _own_  desires are dark right now, so the bridge is neatly made.

_Oh, Haleir. Tsk, tsk. What did you do? Did you hurt our Selene? You did. You hurt our Selene. You wanted to hurt her. I thought I made my point a lifetime ago, but we will have to try again, it seems. Perhaps death will make the lesson stick better this time. Perhaps more pain will leave a better impression._

_It will have to be quick._

_More’s the pity._

Haleir’s open mouth becomes a silent scream, as Des’ magic sinks into him, and sets him aflame.

Purple fires arc up Haleir’s body. It takes slightly longer than anticipated. Possibly because there is no smoke, so asphyxiation does not ensue. Dirthamen maintains the necessary illusions as Haleir drops to the ground and writhes, trying to put out fires there are immolating him from inside his own flesh. His skin cracks and bubbles, and it is an effort to disguise the scent, as his flesh cooks and his bowels evacuate, and his corneas turn white and then burst. They flames are very hot. Dirthamen has to take several steps back before they manage to reduce Haleir to ashen bones.

To dust.

It has barely been done, before Dirthamen hears the sound of a cab pulling into the hotel parking lot.

With some effort, he shifts his shape. Turning his hair ginger and changing his clothes to match Haleir’s suit. Des picks up the man’s bag, and runs a hand over their shifted locks; and he drops the illusions, as the wind kicks a strange new ash cloud out into the street.  Then he walks back towards the front of the hotel, and waves in acknowledgement just as the cab driver is opening the door.

“Thank you so much,” he says.

The driver looks at him for a moment, and then shrugs.

“Sure,” she replies. “Other guy’s not coming?”

“Oh, no,” Des replies. “He was a big help, but I don’t know where he’s gone to now.”


	5. Chapter 5

It does not take Dirthamen as long as he had feared to find Selene.

After the cab drops him off at the chantry refuge, he finds Selene’s cousin, Alaris, Who looks only slightly different than Dirthamen recalls, but is much younger now, of course. Alaris posits a theory that Selene has gone back to try and recover some things which the clan lost during the evacuation, now that some of the wildfires have moved back. He attempts to convince Dirthamen that he should remain at the chantry in case Selene phones, while he himself goes searching for her.

Dirthamen obtains as much information as necessary, before excusing himself to an out-building on the chantry grounds, and dropping his altered form.

Selene is close by.

Close enough that Des can sense a certain fragment of presence. She is not  _near,_  but she is still in the region. Dirthamen follows his senses, and uses the information from Alaris to determine that, in fact, Selene had not gone back towards the fire. She seems to be moving down the main roadway instead - not quickly.

At a brisk walking pace, it takes him the better part of an hour to catch up to her.

The road is quiet. The air tastes like smoke, which seems thematically appropriate. He has to resist the urge to break into a run when he finally catches sight of her. She is wearing jeans and a sweater - too warm for this weather, he would think - and a pair of flip flops, to help protect her feet from the shards of gravel that line the roadside. A single bag is slung over one of her shoulders.

There is a leaf caught in her hair.

She turns back as his footsteps begin to close the distance between them. Hearing them, and then looking. Her eyes widen as she catches sight of him.

Dirthamen is slightly overwhelmed by the sight of her in the flesh. In dreams, it had been overwhelming. But in this world, the solidity of her, the sight of her green eyes, he chest rising and falling with her breaths, he hand fixed on the strap of her bag…

He is stunned into momentary silence.

Selene breaks into a run.

Dirthamen follows after her, frowning in concern. He glances behind himself, but can see no wild animals lurking by the roadside. Most of the terrain has been cleared, in fact, to deny fuel for the spreading fires. He can see Selene as she races down the road. Her bag sways. The leaf is dislodged from her hair. One of her flip-flops comes off; Dirthamen stops to pick it up for her, and follows at a steady pace. Des thinks they should give chase, but running towards a person can be an aggressive action.

He does not want to seem aggressive.

Besides, Selene does not get out of his range of ability to detect her. She disappears from sight a few times, but her running pace is erratic. He frowns in concern when she begins to cough, though. The smoke clearly agitating her.

“Selene?” he calls.

She attempts to run faster.

The concerning behaviour only comes to a halt when her shoeless foot collides with a sharp piece of gravel, and she crashes down to her knees. A cry of pain escapes her. Dirthamen breaks into a job, attempting to radiate non-aggression. He thinks he fails, though, when Selene looks at him with her eyes still wide, and freezes.

Like a deer.

The way she does when she feels helpless and frightened, when some corner of her mind determines that escape is impossible, and attempts to shut down instead.

Dirthamen has not seen her like that since…

Since college, really.

A lifetime ago.

He halts, uncertainly. For a long moment Selene stares at him, and Dirthamen wrestles with himself. Attempting to find an appropriate course of action. He wants to go over to her and scoop her into his arms. Wants to take her face in his hands. Wants to drop to his own knees and weep.

After a minute, he tosses her flip-flop back to her instead.

“You should not go barefoot in this terrain,” he says.

Selene stares uncomprehendingly at the shoe, which has gently landed a foot away from her.

Her breaths are heavy. She coughs again, and Dirthamen resists the urge to move closer.

“It is not wise to exert oneself in these sorts of weather conditions, either,” he says. “Do you… can I help?”

He forces himself to wait until Selene has caught her breath again, before venturing a step closer. But he is relieved when the vacant numbness seems to leave her somewhat. She picks up the flip-flop, and holds it tightly in one hand. In a defensive position, possibly more suitable for a knife or bat. Her eyes are red and watery as she stares at him.

Or glares at him, perhaps.

“You… I, I can’t be dreaming,” she says.

Dirthamen nods.

“You are awake,” he confirms.

Her lips thin. Her voice, when she speaks, is very quiet. He assumes it is the smoke inhalation.

“But you’re him,” she says. “You’re the demon. Your face…”

Ah.

Dirthamen nods again.

“I am not a demon,” he explains. “I am an abomination. The dreams you visited are part of a contract with the spirit possessing me. You managed to find them, somehow.”

Selene stares at him. Her hand twists around the flip-flop. Dirthamen hears a distant sound, like tires on the road - but wherever they are coming from, it does not seem to be approaching them. The sound fades, while Selene’s expression transitions from alarmed to uncertain.

Uncertain is not ideal, but perhaps an improvement.

“How are you here?” Selene asks him.

It is probably better not to lie.

“I tracked you down,” he admits. “When it became apparent that you were real. A friend of mine is very good at that sort of thing. I shared a flight over with your husband. Haleir? He was upset to learn that you had gone missing. Given the evidence of his behaviour towards you, I thought it best to dispatch him before you could be reunited. I apologize if that news causes you distress.”

Selene stares further.

Dirthamen wonders if he should offer her water. He has a bottle. He thinks she would benefit from it, but it is already open, and she may not be comfortable with sharing? She used to be, but that was when they were married.

Her expression goes blank.

“…What?” she says. “Did… did you hurt anyone else?! In the clan, in-”

“No,” Dirthamen swiftly assures her. “I spoke with Alaris. He seemed convinced that you had headed back towards the fires.”

  
”That’s because I left a note for him,” Selene says.

“It was not accurate information.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be, I… I’m not a liar. Not usually, I just… I just couldn’t… Haleir was back and it was my only chance. I  _thought_  it was my only chance. I… look, Mr. Demon, I don’t know what you’re saying with the dreams but I’m sorry if I offended. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t do  _anything,_  I don’t even know how I would…”

She babbles, her breaths coming faster. Dirthamen can tell that she is afraid, but he is not entirely certain how to reassure her.

“I am not accusing you of anything,” he says.

Selene trails off, and swallows.

“What do you want?” she asks him.

He tilts his head.

The question, of course, urges Des to the fore, as it focuses Dirthamen’s own attention upon it. What does he want? So many things. He had forgotten, almost,  _how_  to want. For himself, at least. To want more than just phantoms and dreams. Selene is real before him. He wants to touch her. Wants to hold her. Soothe her hurts, and hear her says his name, and be in his life again. He wants to talk with her. Sleep with her. Hear her laugh and see her cast spells.

He wants her to be safe.

Des walks them down the last length of road, crossing the boundary that Dirthamen had hesitated to ford. Selene looks at them, shoulders tensing when they get close. But she does not even bother to stand up - perhaps her foot hurts too much.

Des extends a hand towards her, as horns curl around Dirthamen’s head, and their tail extends down towards the road. Selene glances at it as it sways gently back and forth. They she looks at their hand. Their fingers, and their long black nails.

“Would you like to find out?” Des asks her, with a smile.

Selene looks like she is thinking very hard about the matter. Weighing something in her mind. Dirthamen holds his breath, and has very nearly pushed Des back when suddenly Selene closes her eyes, and takes his hand.

She stiffens, as if bracing herself for something.

A low wind rustles through the trees.

After half a minute has passed, Selene tentatively opens her eyes again. Dirthamen offers her another smile, before leaning in, and scooping her up into his arms. Keeping her off of her injured foot. He sets her down more comfortably on the roadside, before he lifts her heel, and examines the wound. She flinches a great deal at the contact. But there is some interest in her gaze, too, as Dirthamen casts a low-level healing spell. Pressing two fingers to the pad of her foot, and sending a tendril of soft purple-blue light down to wash over the scrape. A moment later, the wound is closed, and only a smudge of blood remains to give evidence of it.

“We should acquire better shoes for you,” he says.

Selene blinks down at him.

“…I don’t understand,” she says.

“The roads are very hard here. If-”

“Not about the shoes!” she says, with a note of exasperation. Then she swallows, and immediately goes silent. Averting her gaze, and folding her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean… I just mean, I don’t know. I don’t understand what’s going on with… this. Who are you?”

Ah.

He has neglected introductions.

“I am Dirthamen,” he tells her.

She looks, if anything, even more alarmed.

“The  _god?”_  she squeaks.

“No. The abomination,” he corrects.

“…Right,” she replies. Any further questions are then lost to another coughing fit. Dirthamen procures his bottle of water from his bag, and offers it to her. Selene does not express much hesitance, but instead drinks it swiftly, seemingly unbothered that it is not pristine. It calms her enough that she swipes the moisture from the corners of her eyes.

“…Did you say you killed Haleir?” she asks him.

Dirthamen thinks he may have done a poor job of explaining things.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“…Wh… where? Where’s the body?”

“I immolated his internal organs and burned him in magefire until there was nothing left,” he admits.

“If there’s no body, how do I know he’s dead?” Selene asks him, before she pauses, and sends a stunned look towards the far distance.

Hmm.

Perhaps he should have considered that.

“I have his things,” Dirthamen tells her.

“I… I don’t know…” she murmurs.

“Is there some place you were trying to reach?” he wonders.

After a moment, she lets out a heavy sigh, and shakes her head.

“No,” she admits, very quietly.

“A person?” he suggests.

“…No.”

“Do you have any probable access to food, shelter, or other necessities?” he wonders.

“…I have a Mars bar in my bag,” Selene tells him.

He nods.

“That is insufficient,” he informs her, not ungently.

She twists her mouth, but then only shrugs.

“It was stupid,” she says.

He has no idea what she is referring to.

“I doubt that,” he tells her, anyway. Because he does. “But you should come with me, if you are trying to leave this place. I would be pleased to help.”

Selene is quiet for a long moment.

“Do I have a choice?” she asks, at length. Another leaf manages to lodge itself in her hair. Dirthamen resists the urge to reach up and pull it out, and instead he rises, and offers her a bow.

“Of course,” he says. “I will not force you. Or harm you. I promise.”

There is another long moment before Selene works her way onto her feet. She does not offer much response but for a nod. Dirthamen accepts it, though, and rather than backtracking towards the chantry, the two of them carry on down the road. Dirthamen pulls out his phone, and calls them a cab; and they ride back to the airport together.


	6. Chapter 6

This Selene is very quiet.

Dirthamen has never had any issues with silence; often prefers it, in fact. But as the days drag on and she responds to questions and conversations with only small, hesitant words, he finds himself more and more unnerved with the quiet of his home. Where once certain questions and inquiries could lead her down paths of external monologues and posited theories they could discuss for hours on end, she now only gives small nods, or barely heard sounds of affirmation.

Even when he is knowingly telling her information that is wrong. 

Waiting, hoping, for her to disagree. To find some semblance of confidence in herself, in her knowledge. But it never comes; stripped away from her in violence and anger and too long left burning in gaslight.

 

He worries that they have, perhaps, mis-stepped.

 

They do not regret murdering Haleir. With every downcast gaze and subtle rubbing of finger-pads together, every jump at a too loud noise or flinch at the color red, they are all the more sure that their course of action was the right one.

But Dirthamen has no knowledge of what he should do next.

 

When he had met Selene in college,  _before_ , she had been gone from Haleir for quite some time already. She still had her scars and her bruises, but time had worn them down to a duller, more manageable sort of pain long before he found her.

This Selene still carries open, gaping, bleeding wounds, still struggles to hold herself together and stumbles over apologies about getting her metaphorical blood on his carpet. She wakes too early in the morning, looking for chores and tasks that he does not require to occupy her hands, her mind, her time.

 

He leaves out books of mathematics for her, ones that were once hers in another life, that had inspired her own books which still remain hidden behind the false backing of his closet, long out of print and impossible to find in her own words otherwise.

When three days pass without her so much as opening a cover, he suggests them to her instead.

 

She laughs. A sad, broken laugh of someone who does not know their own worth.

“I’m no good at numbers,” She tells him quietly. “I don’t have the mind for complicated ideas like that.”

 

The words nearly break him.

He has to leave the room to keep from showing her the rage that rises in him, the anger, the  _fury_ at knowing exactly what sort of terrible things her dead husband must have told her to make her say such things. Knowledge from Des bleeding through again, the sort of intimacy the demon once had with her melding with his own experiences; the way her face would light up when she found a solution, the way her cheeks would puff while wheels turned in her head and she worked through equations that had stumped lesser minds for  _centuries_ , decoded and laid open and bared to her under desk lamps with discarded papers littering their bed, words and ideas and theories spilling out of her like she would burst if she couldn’t share them with someone.

With him.  

 

_I don’t have the mind for complicated ideas like that._

 

He tries other methods, as the days continue to pass. Leaves doors unlocked and stocks the kitchen with her favorite foods and snacks, and tries to assure her that she  _is_  in fact permitted to eat even when he is not present. That she does not need his permission to  _do_ anything.

The concept seems to throw her more than his abomination-hood does.

 

He finds her a few days later in his room, knelt in front of his closet. For a few moments, he panics. Has she found the false boards? Found all of the things from their past life he could not bear to part with?

No.

 

She is slowly rifling through a large cardboard box, filled with items left behind by Des’s partners over the years. She seems uncharacteristically upset by them, as she lifts a glittered stiletto heel up by its very thin leather strap.

 

“Trophies?” She asks, still staring down at the various contents of the box.

 

“No. Only lost things,” Dirthamen corrects.

 

She nearly chokes on a sob as the shoe falls out of her grasp. “Gods, that’s almost  _worse_ , isn’t it?”

 

Dirthamen has trouble understanding what she is upset by, at first.

Des is the one who finally clues into her emotions, drifting farther from Dirthamen and closer to Selene before realizing.

_‘She thinks she is one of them,’_ he says. _‘That she is some Thing we are collecting. Our Selene, our poor Selene, injured and worn down and too tired for a fight; she thinks she will one day be nothing but another part of this box, found by some other lost person we will trap and drag into our home.’_

_'We did not trap her,’_ Dirthamen feels inclined to point out, guilt rising at his own defensiveness. He would never hurt her,  _could_  never hurt her. The sting of her unspoken accusation somehow all the stronger for her silence.

_'We need to tell her,’_

 

Dirthamen hesitates.  
It seems a poor choice of timing; she is still healing from her last husband. To declare his love for her now, to tell her the truth of things and to lay himself at her feet…

She is stronger than she thinks she is, he knows.

But it might crush her as she is now. Might send her running and fleeing and finding herself in further trouble with templars and unsavory types who could take advantage of her current situation.

And that, he thinks, would be worse.

 

’ _Soon,’_  Dirthamen promises instead.

 

Des scoffs internally, displeased with Dirthamens decision as he watches Selene walk past them and out their bedroom door through their eyes.

_'Not soon enough.’_


	7. Chapter 7

Living with an abomination is less of a hellscape than Selene thought it would be.

It’s a strange feeling, to be more comfortable in this home than she ever had been with the clan. Though, she supposes her home life with the clan turned out to be  _more_  of a hellscape than she thought it would be, so…maybe she just fits in better with those who exist outside of a standard society. Maybe she just wasn’t meant for aravels and husbands and families; maybe she’s just meant for a different sort of life, spent with demons and abominations and boxes of forgotten items of past lovers of the man that she’s starting to…

It’s a ridiculous notion.

A ridiculous  _thought_ , even, that she might be developing romantic feelings towards a man who stalked her in dreams and tracked her down in reality until he found her on the side of the road and then…and then flew her back to his home, to a country she’s never even seen before.

Farther from her clan than she ever thought she’d manage.

Farther, she thinks, than she ever  _could_  have managed on her own.

She’s thankful for that. Always will be, she hopes.

 

As time passes, she only finds herself more thankful. More grateful, and more conflicted about expressing her gratitudes. He pays attention to her; learns her likes and dislikes, notices what sort of food she prefers, even recognizes her nervous ticks before she realizes she’s doing them.

She doesn’t know why he’s doing these things for her. Doesn’t understand why he went to the trouble of tracking her down; the slew of people ringing the doorbell only to be turned away by her presence proves there was no lack of companionship. There is nothing particular about her.

She is, on all accounts, only average or worse.

 

He is very handsome, though.

The sharpness of the cut of his jaw has caught her on more than one occasion, accented by light streaking in through the curtains. Light that highlights the muscles of his shoulders, the cords of his neck, the curve of his waist. It’s very enticing, and too often she’s had to drag her eyes away from him before her mind could turn to lewder concepts of touch and taste.

She supposes that’s part of the package, when you merge with a desire demon.

 

The concept that her husband is dead is…difficult to wrap her mind around. That he could truly be gone, could truly be incapable of hurting her again, of fulfilling the lingering promises he left her with when last they met.

Her fingers brush against her shoulders, memories of bruises now long faded still rising at the touch.

 

The nightmares persist.

 

The most common is the worst; that he finds her here. That he strolls right in the front door, somehow even larger than he had been in life with his hair the same color as the fires that destroyed the clans home, his mere presence fills the air with smoke, choking the air from her lungs as she struggles to breathe and fails to scream, barely able to cough while hands wrap around her shoulders and force her down against the kitchen counter-

But that is where the nightmare ends. Where Dirthamen appears and turns her husband to ash night after night after night. He stands there with his eyes and nails turned black as pitch with hair to match, horns stretching out of his silhouette while he takes slow and careful steps toward her, smoke replaced by air with every pace as he inspects and ensures she is safe and unharmed.

And then she thanks him.

It’s a terrible thing for her to do, she thinks. To thank him, for murdering her husband. For saving her, because she is too weak to save herself. It only illuminates the worst parts of her; the parts that are selfish and disloyal and more concerned with her own wants than the needs of others.

 

She is not sure why this night unsettles her more than the others. Why she jolts awake so suddenly, and so violently, with a burning in her gut that sends her racing to the bathroom to empty her stomach and shaking droplets of sweat from her skin with every motion.

She is unsure why her skin feels like there are flames still licking at it, like there is still smoke in her lungs.

Like there is still a tall, red-headed elf standing on the other side of the door.

 

She showers, and brushes her teeth for the second time that night and tries to shake whatever it is that seems to be plaguing her, but finds no relief. Still feels as though her world could be stripped from her at any point, that she will need to vacate her body at a moments notice, that something terrible will happen and she will be powerless to stop it.

 

Her hair is still damp and her feet are still bare when she finally leaves her bathroom. She doesn’t stop at her bed, or her door, or at any point in the hallway between where she was and where he is. Doesn’t even knock when she opens his door.

He is awake, at least.

 

Dirthamen blinks up at her, the pen in his hand mid-signature as it presses against a small pile of papers on his work desk, the lamp upon it the only source of light in the room.

Selene lets out a breath, and for the first time in an hour doesn’t taste ash on her tongue.

 

“Sorry,” she swallows, hand still on the doorknob. “I couldn’t-I don’t know why it was different tonight, but I can’t-…D'you mind if I just sit with you for a bit? I’ll be quiet. I just…” She shakes her head, taking a deep breath and feeling a bead of sweat drip down the length of her neck. “I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

“Of course,” He says. His eyes are wide, and his body tenses as though conflicted about whether he should stand to help her into the room or stay where he is to allow her her space.

It’s a strange sort of politeness he possesses, but she finds herself enamored by it all the same.

 

She finally releases the doorknob, his rug soft and plush beneath her feet as she carefully moves into the large wingback chair sitting against the wall opposite his desk. It occurs to her now that she is only wearing her bathrobe, as the warmth of her flames finally starts to calm down and she’s left feeling exposed to the chilled air of the room. She curls her knees up to her chest, leaning against one side of the chair as she finally lets herself relax again.

She can only relax in the presence of the man who murdered her husband.

Probably not a  _great_  step towards self sufficiency, she thinks wryly.

 

Dirthamen stares at her for a few moments more, and she tries not to be too awkward about it, before his attentions return to the papers on his desk. Selene takes the time to look around the room; no photos, but plenty of mirrors. Shelves littered with tie and jewelry stands, bowls filled with rings and loose change, and in a few places there are even books, laying on their side or propped up between other decorative pieces. She reads the spines of a few, noting that most seem to be ‘how to’s for various hobbies and the rest are all biographies and oddly titled fictions.

 

Nearly half an hour passes before Dirthamen seems to be finished with whatever he was working on, and Selene tenses slightly as he rises from his chair. But he makes no approach towards her; only steps out of his own bedroom in silence.

 

Selene shifts awkwardly in the chair. Should she leave? His footsteps thud distantly against the stairs, and she feels a distinct pang of guilt that he might be moving to sleep on the couch instead of in his own bed. That’s not right, she shouldn’t-she didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable in his own room. 

She stands and straightens her robe, meaning to go downstairs and apologize for her intrusion. But just as she starts to move for the door, it swings open again.

Dirthamen is standing there with two pencils and two books, and looking at her curiously.

 

“Is everything alright?” He asks.

“Yep,” Selene says a little too quickly. “I was just-I didn’t mean to bother you, I was just-” She sighs. “…Sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” He assures her, closing the door behind him with what she assumes must be his tail. “I thought you might enjoy these with me.”

Selene blinks quickly, taking the soft covered book from him and glancing over it with a frown.

_**Sudoku and Other Mathematical Puzzlers** _

 

“You mentioned earlier that you thought you were not gifted with numbers,” He says before she can bring it up again. “But I find these often help me to unwind and relax before sleeping. I believe you would also find them similarly beneficial.”

“Dirthamen, I…” She starts, eyes darting briefly to the way his tail flicks when she says his name. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” He says with a smile. “If you have any difficulties or concerns, feel free to ask. Though I believe you will do just fine.”

 

She swallows nervously, nodding as she takes one of the pencils from his other hand with a quiet thanks.

 

She hasn’t worked with numbers in quite some time. Once, she had thought to help Haleir with his own work; had found some of his receipts and bills of sale and value listings, and thought that perhaps, she had seen a more productive and prosperous way for him to handle such things.

But she had been incorrect in some manner she could not see, and he had been very angry at her actions and made it abundantly clear that this was something she knew nothing about. That she should concern herself more with the simple matters of her healing tent than the business which he was trying to run.

 

So of course, she expects a similar disaster to await her in the pages of the book. But as she manages to complete the simple puzzles, and makes her way through to the intermediate, she finds she doesn’t have much difficulty with it at all.

It could be a fluke, of course.

 

She skips ahead, to one of the more advanced puzzles, and finds it still does not take her long at all to find the solution.

A strange sense of pride wells in her chest.

 

She tries another, and another, and another still, and finds that the numbers and the clarity and control she is given over the numbered boxes is comforting, in its way. After five of the Master level puzzles are completed, she skips further still into the book, finding puzzles more akin to algebra than a crossword. Strings of letters arranged into several equations, with a goal of finding out which letter equals which number. It is a slow start, but Selene finds herself solving even those with ease, before long.

 

“I see you are finding them enjoyable,” Dirthamen finally speaks, breaking the silence of the room. “I think that is the first time I have seen you smile tonight.”

 

Selene feels her face heat slightly, pulling the book up to cover her darkening cheeks and the bridge of her nose while she mumbles out a reflexive apology.

 

“It was not mean to be a negative statement,” He assures her. “I am afraid I am not having quite as much ease with my own endeavors, however. Would you mind assisting me?”

 

She hesitates.

He is laying in his bed, back against an array of overly fluffed pillows with bright pink socks covering his feet. Still wearing his black slacks and belt, though his shirt is clearly one he regularly sleeps in, with a slightly stretched out collar. As though he had remembered he had work to finish half-way through his night time routine.

There is something oddly vulnerable and alluring about the appearance.

And so she hesitates.

But only briefly.

 

Selene crawls over the side of his bed closest to her chair, peering down at the offered book from beside him.

“You have a five where you should have a three,” She informs him, pointing out the offending square on the page.

“Ah,” He notes, staring directly at her and not so much as glancing at the page. “So I do.”

Selene raises an eyebrow at him as she straightens from where she had been on all fours, pulling her robe back over where it had loosened on her chest. “Was this a trick?”

“No,” He assures her. “I truly was not sure where I had made the mistake. Though…” His tongue darts out briefly to lick his top lip and his eyes flash gold for a brief moment. “I think it is the best mistake I have made in a very long time.”

Selene snorts, before immediately covering her face and apologizing again. Nobody likes snorting, and its rude to do in front of people.

“I do not mind it,” Dirthamen assures her. “It is a sign that you are happy, correct? How could that possibly be a bad thing?”

 

Her face flushes, and she feels flames licking beneath her skin for an entirely different reason than earlier.

_It’s a ridiculous notion,_  she reminds herself.

 

“I suppose I should just go back to my puzzles then…” Dirthamen drawls, eyes still on her expectantly.

Selene clears her throat and nods, opening her own book back up beside him. “Yes. That-that’s probably for the best.”

 

He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, and they both return to their tasks, close and in various states of undress on one of the nicest mattresses Selene has ever been on.

She realizes this, of course, when she wakes up on it in the morning. Covered by the blue blanket that had previously been slung over the wingback chair, and curled into the still-only-partially-dressed-for-bed abomination that had kept her safe through the night.

Dirthamen is still dozing, breaths light and even with the rise and fall of his chest, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, touching them in a way that doesn’t make her flinch. In a way that just makes her feel safe, and warm, and content.

She closes her eyes, her own hand tightening in the hem of his shirt, and takes a deep breath.

No smoke. No ash.

No nightmares.


End file.
